Back To You
by Crumbcake11
Summary: Detective Stiles Stilinski has to both house and protect a man accused of murder. In his own apartment. Just the two of them. The problem? The man is Derek Hale, his ex-boyfriend. And, boy oh boy, do they have a lot of issues to work out. Meanwhile, it looks like Derek's uncle, Peter might be the real murderer- Or is he?


The strong scent of copper hits his senses first.

He pushes the door open and blinks.

Blood.

His heart pounds and he's sure he's drunkenly imagining things, but it looks like there's blood on his floor.

The sight is disturbing, alarming even, but it's the intake of breath next to him, Jennifer's wide eyes as she screams, that let him know he isn't imagining anything. The terrified woman screams right in his ear, and he was to move away or risk having his eardrums rupture.

His mouth is coated with the last tastes of alcohol, and his head is pounding.

He'd overdone it, and now there's blood on his floor and a woman shrieking in his ear.

He's completely clueless, with a migraine to make matters worse.

He can't process it. He tries to, but he can't.

He..he needs to call somebody. Right?

The police? Somebody should know there's blood in his apartment.

His drunken mind stumbles a laugh, bold and brash, thinking of a pair beige uniform slacks he'd ripped off with his teeth more than once.

Fuck the police.

Jennifer almost pulls him down with her weight, her dark eyes wide and frightened.

He tells her to stay put and moves in.

The stench heightens and immediately hits him, and he can't help but recoil backward. The ripe scent doesn't agree with his stomach, and he gags.

Then gulps.

One deep breath out and he manages to move forward slowly, being somewhat steady and as careful as he can about not stepping or touching any of it. Using the wall as support, he examines the scene.

The door knobs, the wall, the floor, nearly every surface seems to be smeared with it dark crimson.

It's really bad.

It's all seems like a lot. Way too much for one human to make.

Thick and still fresh, the long trail stretches far into the next room. His throat burns with bile as he follows it. The line moves in such a way that it almost looks like somebody was dragged.

"Babe?" a voice calls.

He ignores it.

His head hurts. Between the smell and his stomach, the foul taste in his mouth..the combination is becoming a bit too much for him to handle. He breathes into the crook of his elbow and moves on.

Then he sees it.

The reason for all the blood.

"Jesus."

It's worse, way worse than anything he could have imagined. The body is a twisted mess, and he can barely identify where anything is. The unmoving mass is slathered in blood and torn ligaments and seems too deformed to be human.

He stumbles towards the nearest wall and barely catches himself.

A million different questions flash through his mind.

Who was it and why the hell were they in his apartment?

And most of all..

Where was the person responsible?

Too many questions and not a single answer. He has absolutely no clue what the hell is going on, who the hell is on his floor and what he should do about it.

It's all so unreal, and his head is...

"Put your hands in the air."

Shit.

The cops.

How had they gotten here? Jennifer? Had she called them?

He tries to explain. Attempts to comprehend anything that's going on. He knows it looks bad. A dead body cut to shreds on his apartment floor. Definitely not something he can easily talk his way out of, though he tries, "I didn't..this isn't." It comes out as an incoherent slur.

"I said put up your hands." The gun aimed at him doesn't waver The uniformed officer repeats the command, and there's no room for argument in his tone.

He's not happy about it, but he doesn't fight. He puts up his hands, and they immediately charge him.

They slap a pair of handcuffs on him and start reading his rights. He doesn't hear any of it as he's too busy wondering where Jennifer has gone. He tries to ask, but no one answers him.

All he knows is that he's being arrested...

And this time he's not roleplaying.

He's honest to god being arrested.

* * *

Stiles Stilinski both loves and hates his job. The pay is decent, and he likes most of the people he works with, he just hates early mornings.

More appropriately, he hates early morning phone calls. Especially on his day off.

Calling someone before the sun is up and everything is cold and dark outside, that's rude. Calling someone on their day off when they're binge watching a Star Wars marathon, that's unforgivable.

Stiles isn't feeling perky or in the least bit happy, and his mood is closer to the bitter end of the scale.

Unfortunately, his attitude doesn't lighten any as he enters the station. His newly assigned partner lays his fiery blue gaze on him within two seconds, like a predator seeking its prey.

"Stilinski." Jackson Whittemore hisses the name with disdain, "You're late."

Stiles tries to keep his temper. He's not sure how he can be late on a day he isn't supposed to be working, but Jackson's never been the brightest bulb, too pretty to be smart. Being that his eyes are still somewhat blurred from sleep and too much television and he hasn't even had his coffee yet, Stiles feels his supposed lateness is more than justified, "Good morning to you too."

Jackass.

Jackson has taken his demotion quite poorly. Once working for the DA and now stranded in the lower tiers as a detective, he's clearly annoyed and takes it out on Stiles consistently.

Stiles can feel his cold contempt as they begin their trek through the station to his office. It used to bother him, but he knows Jackson well enough that Stiles isn't too offended by him.

Jackson's pretty much unpleasant to everyone.

Once they reach the office, Stiles nods at the folder in Jackson's hand.

"What is it?"

Jackson tosses the folder open, "You tell me."

Stiles has never classified himself as easily affected by violent images, so he's a bit overwhelmed when he rears back at the gore of the pictures that spill out. It looks like a person, at least the remains of a person. Stiles is disgusted and worse; he honestly can't tell where the body begins and where it ends.

"Jesus."

Jackson looks like he wants to snap something, but it's obvious the picture is affecting him too. He was never meant for such gruesome stuff either. A cushy desk job somewhere, but not on the streets with Stiles.

He might get blood on his freshly bleached tips.

"Ever interrogated a murderer before?"

Stiles shakes his head, "Not really." He stops, "Wait?" He looks at the picture and back up again, "You mean you already have a suspect?"

Jackson grimaces and nods, "Nasty guy with a bad attitude who clearly doesn't know the Greaser leather look died years ago. He's not really being all that cooperative, but I'd put my life on it that he's the one who did this."

Stiles folds his arms in confusion, looking over the file and not understanding, "Then why bring me up here? If you already have someone in custody.."

Jackson snaps at him like he's an idiot, "Do you have cotton in your ears, Stilinski? As I said, the guy's not exactly being cooperative." Jackson pushes a paper towards him, "He says he's innocent."

Stiles scans the sheet and asks, "Does he have an alibi?"

"..enough of one."

"But not airtight enough that you don't question it?"

Jackson's face falls, "The guy was intoxicated when they brought him in, a neighbor called from all the noise he and his girlfriend were making. The murder happened in his apartment. Seems like simple connecting the dots to me."

Stiles waits, "But…" he prompts.

"Apparently, his girlfriend was with him all night and said he couldn't have done it. She was even with him when the body was discovered."

Stiles nods, "So he does have an alibi."

"Except the same neighbor says they swore they saw him enter the apartment hours earlier holding a knife.

"And they didn't call the police then?"

Jackson shrugs, "Said they didn't want to get involved."

"Until it was too damn late, apparently," Stiles grumbles. It was incredible how little people cared about their fellow man until it became an inconvenience for them. "So where's the knife?"

"Being tested," Jackson replies. "It was stuck in the body."

Stiles brows crinkle as he tries to process the information. Using his photographic memory to help him, he comes up more than confused, "So he what, brought his girlfriend back to come see the evidence? That would be pretty stupid, wouldn't it."

"Maybe he was planning to carve her up next," Jackson shrugs in a relaxed way that makes Stiles a bit ill.

"Except that he was drunk. Did they find any of his DNA on the body?"

Jackson's head shake is stiff, "No connection...yet. But I know he's involved one way or another. Guys like him, all tough looking, they're all a bunch of mindless idiots working for someone."

Stiles doesn't argue that, "Who's the victim."

"Goes by the name Ennis. Can't seem to find a last name for him. Seems he was a real piece of shit. Selling smack and probably looking up little girls skirts in his free time, a real charmer."

"Drug dealer?"

"Amongst other things."

Stiles takes this in and rubs his forehead in thought, "So you thinking a drug deal gone wrong?" Could it be that simple? Stiles wonders.

Jackson snorts, "What else could it be?"

"Did he test for anything?"

Jackson's lack of response is his answer.

"I'll take that as a no."

"Just because he wasn't taking smack that day doesn't mean he wasn't on it."

Stiles bites his lip, "Either way, all we have is circumstantial on this guy. We can't exactly.."

"We're getting a confession."

Jackson's intensity is startling, "Confession? But you said.."

"Why do you think you're here? I need out of this place, Stilinski. This is the one case between me and a suit and tie behind a desk."

Stiles can't help but point to himself, "Me?"

Jackson raises what has to be a waxed eyebrow, "No, the idiot standing behind you." He snarks.

Stiles refrains from looking behind him and frowns. God, this guy was an asshole of the worst kind.

"I don't know why, but people seem to like you."Jackson continues with near contempt, "I've tried, but he's not my type, and my usual tactics aren't working."

Stiles isn't sure if Jackson realizes he's just admitted to seducing his suspects.

"Are you saying you need my help because you can't handle one guy?"

Jackson's teeth click, "I'm saying that maybe the guy's tastes are a bit more ordinary." He grunts, "Here," He shoves another file folder at him, "Meet your new conquest."

Stiles takes the folder, nearly getting a paper-cut in the process. He glances over the details. The guy has no record aside from a few speeding tickets. It's a bit or a boring and a fast read.

Stiles's eyes search for the most important thing. A name.

Derek S. Hale

Stiles stares. He stares at the name and begins to breathe a bit too quickly.

The reaction causes Jackson to look at him oddly, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Stiles assures over a forced smile, "I just remembered I forget to TiVO something."

"Jesus Christ," Jackson groans. "Will you get your head out of your ass, already? I know you think you're some kind of genius, but your quirks aren't nearly as cute as you think they are."

Stiles swallows, "Says you," he tries to joke.

"If you can't handle it, I'll get someone else to…"

"My dad gave you this case?" Stiles suddenly asks.

Jackson nods.

Son of a bitch.

"If there's a problem, Stilinski…"

"There's no problem," Stiles quickly assures with a snap.

Problem? What problem could there possibly be? It wasn't like Stiles was on the verge of a panic attack, or anything.

People have the same name, and it's not like he'll look at the next page at the mug shot because he's ready to shit bricks as it is.

After all, it's not like he's about to interrogate his ex-boyfriend for murder or anything.

* * *

If you feel inclined, please let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading.


End file.
